


not to me. not if it’s you.

by killingangels



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Fluff, IM A SAP, M/M, i did a thing after months, i know it’s meant to b 5+1 but i didn’t ask for ur opinion did i, i wrote this. in my notes app, prob not good but again i don’t care, uhh it’s like 4+1, “are you scared?” + malum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27253528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingangels/pseuds/killingangels
Summary: 4 times the question “are you scared?” was asked and 1 time it didn’t need to be-let’s not talk about the summary. or why i only did 4 instead of 5. i’m a little rusty
Relationships: Michael Clifford & Calum Hood, Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	not to me. not if it’s you.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi hello folks. it truly has been. time. anyhow i wrote this instead of writing my english essay. 
> 
> anyways it’s only got 4 instead of 5 bc i gave up on it really. not really but my phone got to ten percent and i decided i should start writing instead of dreaming all the different ways i could overthrow the government. 
> 
> please enjoy. i’ve not written in a holy moly long time but whatever. is this good? is it bad? i for sure don’t know. it was fun to write anyways. enjoy!

1.

There’s a boy sitting alone on the grass next to the swings when Calum leaves the building for playtime, and Calum stops a little while away to watch him twist his hands in his lap. The boy stares almost desperately at the boys swinging recklessly from the monkey bars, and pushes his hair away from his face when the wind pushes it into his eyes. 

Earlier that morning, Calum remembers, his mum had carefully pressed coins into Calum’s hand, wrapping her fingers around his knuckles as he promised to find someone to split the sweets he could buy on the way home with. Calum’s not stupid. He’s seven now, and he’s heard mum and dad talk about him being lonely. 

He’s not lonely. He’s got all the friends he could ever want in his head, and they’re never unkind. 

Still, he grips the coins in one hand, feeling the warm metal dig into his skin, and stuffs both hands into his pockets before sitting down next to the boy. 

He’s more recognisable close up. Calum remembers him from their first Art lesson last week, when Bethany Hawkins had spilt black paint all over the floor without telling anybody and this boy had tripped on it. He had to be given a bumped head note from the office. Michael, he remembers, and gives the coins another squeeze for luck. 

“Hello,” Michael says to the empty swing in front of him. He twists his body slightly to look at Calum properly. “Why are you sitting here?” 

Calum feels a little startled. Neither Samuel nor Adam had ever said anything like that, and they were the meanest of Calum’s friends. Imaginary friends, Calum’s dad always said. 

“You were sitting all by yourself,” Calum says, eventually. 

Michael looks down at where his hands twist and pull out the blades of grass, piling up the shorn stems. “I don’t have any friends,” Michael says. 

“That’s okay,” Calum tells him. It feels like the right thing to say, and Michael perks up a bit at his words, looking up at him from under his eyelashes. 

“Really?” Michael asks, and he shifts fully, turning to face Calum on the rain- wet grass. “Jack told me I was lame. He said that no one wanted to be friends with me.” 

“You’re not lame,” Calum says, and rips a chunk of grass out of the dirt, dropping it onto the growing pile and wiping his hand on his trousers. “We can be friends.” 

There’s a smile growing on Michael’s face, and he copies Calum by wiping his muddy palm on the hem of his trousers. “Will you go on the monkey bars with me?” 

Calum nods and gives the coins in his pocket one last squeeze, beginning to stand from the grass, but Michael still doesn’t move. “What’s wrong?” 

“You’re going to laugh at me,” Michael says, glaring at the monkey bars. Calum shakes his head. 

“I won’t. Are you scared?” 

“No,” Michael says, but it’s obvious that he’s lying. Even to Calum, and he’s awful at spotting a lie. 

“Do you want me to hold your hand?” Calum asks, thinking about the way that Mali-Koa had always held his hand as they walked to the shop, or to the beach, or the way to school. 

“Yes please,” Michael says, voice quiet and so much softer than before, and Calum slots their hands together to help him up, swinging them between their bodies all the way to the monkey bars. 

(They swing until the end of playtime, and Calum feels as though he’s flying. On the way home, he grips both Michael’s and Mali-Koa’s hands as they cross the street, and Calum finally has someone to split his Magic Stars with.) 

2.

They’re both thirteen now, and it’s winter, which means Michael and Calum are most easily found laying on Michael’s bed. 

“I just don’t understand,” Michael’s saying, pushing his hair away from his face absently. Calum twists a lock of it between his fingers as he listens, tapping the pads of his fingertips against Michael’s head to the beat of whatever song’s playing. Michael got a CD player for his last birthday, and it’s a ritual for Calum to bring over a new CD each time they hang out. 

“It’s a classical competition, Michael,” Calum explains, for what must be the fifth time. “Mr Johnson doesn’t have it in for you, he just doesn’t know you play an instrument.” 

“I’ve told him before,” Michael sulks, leaning into Calum’s hand on his head. “Next week isn’t too close to steal a sign up sheet from his desk, is it?” 

“Why don’t we just ask, tomorrow?” Calum says, diplomatically. “I‘ll go with you.” 

“You’d better,” Michael mutters, so softly that a Calum wouldn’t hear if Michael’s mouth wasn’t right next to his ear. Calum raps his knuckles against Michael’s head as a rebuttal, and closes his eyes when Michael starts to protest. 

Sometimes Calum wonders if it’s strange, for them to be so close. They rarely disagree, and when they do, it usually takes less than two hours for Michael to corner him next to his locker, or on the way home from school, or on one memorable occasion, in the changing room after football practice. Calum’s never seen anyone else at school with what they have. 

—

“Are you scared?” Calum asks. 

They’re waiting somewhere, in a classroom that Calum’s pretty sure was his year Seven science classroom, but is so covered in black bed sheets that it’s hard to tell. There’s a girl with a violin in the corner, on the phone, and another with a trombone who’s crying so hard that her skirt is damp. Michael’s been tuning his guitar for the past five minutes, though Calum knows it’s in tune. He’s not sure whether it’s out of boredom or nerves. 

“No,” Michael says, too quickly. He inhales unsteadily, eyes darting to look at a Calum before looking back down at his guitar, and then wipes his palm on his school trousers. “Are you?” 

“Yeah,” Calum admits. There’s bile in the back of his throat, and Michael shifts his plastic chair closer to Calum’s to let Calum rest his head on Michael’s shoulder. 

“You’ll be okay,” Michael tells him, mouth moving so little that it’s difficult to hear over the polite clapping that Calum can hear from the hall. Calum knows it’s so that no one will be able to tell that Calum’s nervous, which he’s thankful for. “Your voice is amazing, and your mic works already, and your mum and Mali-Koa are in the audience. You know they’ll clap loud enough to drown everyone else out.” 

Calum nods against the scratchy fabric of Michael’s blazer, letting his hand find Michael’s beneath the table. Both of their hands are slightly clammy, but neither of them mention it. 

They walk on stage hand in hand, hidden behind Michael’s guitar, and the lights are bright enough that Calum has an excuse to focus on Michael’s hands as he plays, on the slightly out of focus grey of his microphone instead of the crowd. 

Calum closes his eyes as the last couple of notes ring out, and watches as his mum stands to cheer, smile wide on her face. Michael squeezes his hand behind the cover of his guitar again, and Calum’s heart speeds up at the touch. He knows it’s probably from the elation of their performance, and locks that thought away to think about in like, thirty years. 

3\. 

Even Calum knows that maths class isn’t the place to be dreaming up band names, but once Michael’s got his heart set on something, he won’t budge until he’s got it. 

Calum scribbles a note on a ripped off part of the back cover of his maths book, and shoves it across to Michael’s desk. He can almost sense Michael’s scowl, and the angry scribble of his pen in the otherwise silent classroom only confirms his expectations. 

NO, it reads, in big angry letters, emboldened and italicised- although that could be down to Michael’s chicken scratch handwriting, and not emphasis- and there was a tiny sad face below it. Calum sighed at the sight of it, and shoved it in his bag. 

“If you want to be friends with him, you can ask him to join the band,” Michael whispers, wandering past his desk to drop his gum in the bin, and flipping Calum off behind his back as the bell rings. 

“You said you don’t hate him anymore,” Calum reminds him as they join the flow of students heading to lunch. Michael frowns. 

“I don’t,” he starts, and then trails off. “I just don’t want to-“ 

“He thinks you still hate him,” Calum says, grabbing two trays for them both. “He won’t believe me. Trust me, I’ve tried,” he adds, when Michael opens his mouth to argue. 

“Just because you just turned sixteen it doesn’t mean you have to be right all the time,” Michael mutters as he digs out the money for his lunch. “What if he says no?” 

And there it is. Calum knows that Michael worries about these things, about failing school and the band failing and losing Calum. 

(He’s not sure how. They’ve stuck together since that day in Year Three, and Calum’s never gone anywhere. He can’t imagine his life without Michael, even when he’s being a pain.)

“He won’t say no,” Calum says. “Why don’t you want to? Are you scared?” 

Calum’s half joking- he’s seen Michael yell back at teachers and at students who make fun of him until they never do it again- but Michael just nods, and it all falls into place. 

“Come on,” he says, leading Michael to an empty table. Michael’s face falls, and Calum’s not quite sure what he was expecting but the sight makes Calum’s chest hurt. 

“Do you really think,” Calum starts, once they’re both sat down, “that after nine years, I’d leave you for someone else? I found out how stupid you were after nine months, Michael. You can’t get rid of me, and I’m not asking you to ask Luke to join so that I can make him my new best friend. I want you to ask him to join because he’s good.” 

Michael starts eating his jacket potato instead of replying, and his eyes stray to somewhere above Calum’s head. 

“Hello,” a voice says, and Calum drops his fork in surprise. “Can I sit here?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says, semi-politely, and glances at Calum before looking back down at his potato. 

Calum tries to give Michael an encouraging shove under the table, but it’s Luke that lets out a tiny sigh of pain. “Sorry,” Calum says. “That was meant for Michael.” 

Luke shakes his head, and shoves his empty plate to the side once he’s done, copying Michael. 

“So, Luke,” Michael starts, in the voice that tells Calum that he wishes he could crawl into his bed back home and hide from this entire conversation. “Calum showed me some of your videos.” 

“Oh,” Luke says, pokes at a hole in the table. 

“Not like that,” Michael says hastily, and shoves a hand across the table. “I’m sorry. They’re really good. Calum was right, you’re really good.” 

Luke stares at Michael’s hand as if it’s going to slap him around the face. “What?” 

“You’re really good “ Michael repeats. He starts to draw his hand back towards himself, and Calum can see his eyes dart towards the door. 

“Really?” Luke asks, like Calum hasn’t told him a million times. The bell rings for Maths, but neither Luke or Michael move. 

Michael nods, and sticks his hand out the whole way, waiting. 

4.

“Michael,” Luke calls, from the kitchen. Michael looks up from where he’s fiddling with the camera, propped against the bookshelf in Calum’s living room, and shrugs at Calum. 

“What?” Michael yells back, standing up. He makes a face at the camera before leaving, presumably to find Luke, and Calum takes that as an open invitation to set the camera up properly. 

Ashton arrives before Calum can even think about moving the camera from its precarious arrangement against a photo of Calum from year six, and he slumps into a dining table chair with a sigh. 

“Where are they?” Ashton asks him, dropping into the chair next to him. Calum shrugs. 

“Setting fire to my kitchen, probably.” 

“Heard you,” Michael calls, balancing an open box of pizza on his forearm and three cans in the other. “Here, Ashton.” 

“What’re we playing?” Luke asks, as if he wasn’t the one to come up with the list of songs. His mouth full of pizza. There’s tomato sauce smeared across his teeth. 

Calum kicks the chair leg, snags the crust off of Michael’s plate and ignores his sound of protest. “You’ve got the paper.” 

“‘Not!” Luke squawks, and Ashton waves the slip of paper between them. 

“I’ve got it. Luke wants to do Teenage Dirtbag.” 

“We all know it,” Luke points out, leaning back on his chair until it rips against the cabinet. Calum shrugs. 

“What’d you think Mike?”

Michael looks up, almost jerkily, dropping the pizza slice. He’s still on his first one. Calum’s finished. 

“Yeah,” he says. Calum frowns. Considering how much Michael’s been talking his ear off about their cover all week, Calum thought he would’ve been right next to Luke, snagging the paper from Ashton and setting up the camera properly before they’d even finished eating. 

Instead he’s quiet, nibbling on the corner of his pizza. He complained when Calum took his crust, but the other lies uneaten. 

“I’m going toilet,” he says, and leaves his plate on his seat, rushing up the stairs. 

Ashton narrows his eyes at Calum, and Luke makes a shooing motion. “Well?” 

“What?” 

“Go after him.” 

Calum does. Michael’s sitting on Calum’s bed, staring at his overdue maths homework. Or, rather, into blank space. Calum doesn’t think Michael would stare at maths work if it was the only way to stay alive. 

“Michael?” Calum asks. He wraps an arm around Michael’s shoulder and pulls him in. He ignores the way Michael’s shoulders are shaking, because he’s a good friend like that. 

“What’s up?” Calum says, quietly into the space between them. Michael shifts closer to him. 

“Nothing,” he says, but sighs like he knows he’ll have to tell Calum. He always has to tell Calum. That’s their rule. 

“Are you scared?” Calum tries. He pulls Michael in properly, so they’re hugging. Michael’s breaths are hot against his collarbone. 

“What if we do it wrong?” Michael asks against Calum’s t-shirt. He’s holding on to the back of his shirt tightly, and his eyelashes brush Calum’s skin when he blinks. 

“We’ve been practising-“

“What if I do it wrong?” Michael says. 

Calum frowns. “You won’t.” 

“But what if I do? This is the only thing I’ve got left. What if I mess it up, like how I messed up that whole english project in year nine?” 

“Michael,” Calum says, firmly. He moves away slightly, just so he can look Michael in the eye, and hold’s Michael’s hands in his own. “That was in year nine. You didn’t care about that project- and I’ve never seen you care about anything more than this band. If it doesn’t work out, then we’ll make it work.” 

Michael makes a non committal noise, and screws his eyes shut. “I’m scared.” 

“It’s okay,” Calum tells him, and crawls bodily over Michael to stand back up. “Are you coming?” 

“You’re an awful friend,” Michael says, but clambers off of the bed himself. He wraps both arms around himself and stumbles slightly on his way to the door. Still, it’s better than Calum could’ve hoped possible. 

(There’s probably some soppy, inspirational metaphor that Calum could’ve blurted out at that moment; something about courage, and fear, and running full speed towards the blurring headlights of a speeding car just for the hell of it, but he stays quiet. The video won’t film itself.) 

5\. 

“Hey, Calum,” Michael says. They’re waiting backstage; Michael’s already got his guitar slung across his body, one hand on the fretboard and the other holding a packet of pretzels. 

Calum takes a handful and leans against the wall next to him, nodding to the stage assistant who hands him his bass. “Yeah?” 

“This is our hundredth show,” Michael tells him. He’s smiling- eyes crinkling at the corners, looking at Calum as though he’s hung the stars. It makes Calum nostalgic- thinking of all the times he’s seen Michael smile, the fact that no matter how many cities they visit, or shows they play, Michael always smiles at him like this before they go on. 

“Yeah?” Calum says, letting his head flop onto Michael’s shoulder. “I love London shows.” 

“You love all the shows,” Michael says, popping another pretzel in his mouth. Calum shrugs. 

“You happy you didn’t try to drop out, now, huh?” he says, ignoring Michael’s squawk of protest. 

“I was scared-“ 

“You’re not now, though,” Calum says, into Michael’s shoulder. His chin digs into the guitar strap. 

“How could I be?” Michael says. “I’m with you.” 

Calum huffs. “Sap.” 

“I’m trying to nice,” Michael says, though he doesn’t sound irritated. He links their pinkies together instead, and leads him towards the stage. 

Calum just smiles, and lets himself be dragged onstage. And really, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.


End file.
